


Family Resemblance

by OgdensOldFirewhiskey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath, Alternative Perspective, Angst and Feels, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Canon Compliant, Grief/Mourning, Missing Scene, Regret, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OgdensOldFirewhiskey/pseuds/OgdensOldFirewhiskey
Summary: Harry bears a striking resemblance to both Lily and James. How does this affect the people in his life who knew his parents best? A look at Petunia, Snape, and Sirius' perspective when they laid eyes on Harry for the first time.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 67





	1. Petunia

Petunia crept slowly down the stairs, taking care not to tread on the creaky step halfway down so as not to wake her still slumbering husband and child. Little Dudders was just starting to sleep through the night. Mrs. Polkiss down the street had told her that _her_ son still woke her up at three in the morning, but Dudley, already advanced for his age, was peacefully fast asleep in his crib.

She reached the kitchen, gazing swiftly around to make sure that she had not missed any spots in her evening cleaning the night before. But no, her countertops were gleaming, and the faint scent of her favorite lemon cleaning product still lingered in the air. She wanted to have breakfast ready for when Vernon woke up, as she always did, and began pulling pots from the cupboard.

It was a comforting ritual, waking up early. It was often the only time Petunia got to herself, these wee minutes in the morning before her boys were up, and she cherished them. She loved being a mother, but it did get tiring sometimes while Vernon was at work. The fact was that many of her friends didn’t yet have children, and so they didn’t entirely understand what it was like to spend hours in solitude every day taking care of a baby. Dudley was absolutely perfect, of course, but he could hardly talk to her about the developments on her favorite television program or the scandalous affair the next door neighbor was having with his secretary. And Vernon was often too tired to talk about such things when he returned from work.

Fleetingly, her conversation with Vernon the evening before passed through her mind. He’d asked about her sister, and her sister’s son, Harry. Petunia had done her best not to think of her sister for a very long time, and usually she succeeded. But now, after Vernon had so surprisingly brought her up, she couldn’t help but wonder what Lily was doing at this very moment. She wondered if Lily was up making breakfast for _her_ husband and son, but then pushed the thought out of her mind. The idea that she and Lily had anything in common anymore was ludicrous. Lily was surely off with that wretched _Potter_ boy doing lord knows what. Still though, the fact that Vernon had seen some of _her_ lot out and about yesterday… it was all very upsetting, is what it was.

As Petunia made her way to the front door to retrieve the milk from the front steps, she decided she would not give her sister another thought. She had Vernon and Dudley and she was quite happy, really.

She pulled open the door; as leaned down to get the milk her heart jumped into her throat and a shriek escaped her lips before she could stop herself.

Laying on the front step was a _baby_.

Somehow her scream had not awoken the child. Petunia looked wildly about the street, hoping to spot the child’s parents, but Privet Drive was quiet.

She felt her heart freeze in her chest as something that felt quite like dread passed through her, as she looked back down at the child and saw vivid cut on its forehead, in the shape of a lightning bolt. The child was clutching a letter in his sleep, and she thought she recognized the handwriting on the front of the envelope addressed: _Petunia Dursley_.

Suddenly aware that the neighbors could come out at any moment, she scooped up the boy and brought him into the sitting room, ignoring the panging in her chest and the tremble in her hands. She laid the boy down on the couch and teased the letter from his tiny grip.

There was no mistaking it now. She definitely recognized the handwriting on the front, from many years ago. She stared at the sealed envelope for a moment, prolonging the moment that she would have to read the contents of the letter. Somehow she understood that the letter would alter her simple little life forever, and she wanted to enjoy the last moments of peace she had left.

Finally, she tore it open and unfolded a single piece of parchment.

_Dearest Petunia,_

_It appears that I am destined to write to you only unhappy things; unfortunately, the news I write to you now is far more terrible and painful than the letter I wrote you so many moons ago, but such are the times we live in. If I thought I could prevent you any pain or suffering by cloaking this news in profound words of empathy and insight, I would. But life and experience has taught me that the most terrible things are terrible no matter the manner in which the words reach you. And so I write this to you with heavy heart._

_Your sister Lily and her husband James were killed two evenings ago, on the night of the thirty first of October. As you may or may not be aware, a very powerful dark wizard by the name of Lord Voldemort had been gaining power over the last eleven years. I will not list his numerous atrocities here, but suffice to say that he has done profound damage to the wizarding world. Lily and James were his latest victims in a series of good, brave people who stood up against his reign of terror._

_I like to think that I knew your sister rather well, and never a brighter and more vivacious person I have met in all my years. Lily was exceedingly kind and wonderfully witty, and the world has lost a beacon of hope and love with her loss. I offer you what condolences I can. I grieve for the loss of Lily Potter, as do all who knew her._

_As you have undoubtedly deduced by this point, being the sharp woman that you are, Lily’s son Harry has wonderfully and miraculously survived this attack. I have brought him here to you in the hope that you will care for him as your own; orphaned and alone, you are his last surviving relative on either side of his family._

_If this simple truth were not enough to convince you to allow Harry to stay, I must now place a larger burden than I already have upon your shoulders. I cannot impress upon you the import of the words I now write to you; I can only implore you to understand the significance of taking Harry into your home. Harry’s future and the future of the wizarding world rests on your understanding of what I am about to scrawl on this insignificant parchment._

_You may be wondering how precisely a boy of one survived an attack from a powerful dark wizard, while Lily and James did not. Harry did not simply avoid detection or pass unnoticed by Lord Voldemort during the attack. In fact, Harry was Lord Voldemort’s intended target. However, in his insurmountable greed and inconceivable evil, Voldemort greatly miscalculated and failed to account for a magic far more powerful than anything that can be taught at Hogwarts: the strength of a mother’s love. You have a young son, I believe? Perhaps, then, you can understand this piece even if the rest of it seems unfathomable._

_You see, Lily refused to let Voldemort take the life of her only son. She refused to move aside, and when she fell at the wand of Voldemort she unknowingly placed a magical protection upon Harry, so that when Voldemort attempted to strike the final blow against Harry, the curse rebounded. Harry was left with nothing but a scar, and Voldemort was destroyed. Harry is the only person to have ever survived this curse, and he (at the age of one) has been hailed as the savior of our world._

_I must now impress upon you the two most critical pieces of this intricate puzzle. 1) I do not believe Lord Voldemort is dead in the true sense of the word. He has experimented with magic in unfathomable ways, and I would reason that we have not seen the end of him. 2) If we accept the first as true, then Harry is in very grave danger; for as long as Voldemort exists, he will not rest until Harry Potter is dead._

_This is where you, Petunia, become so incredibly important. The magical protection that Lily placed upon Harry that evening runs through Harry’s veins, and in you as her only blood relation. By taking Harry in, you seal the magical protection that Lily gave her son in her sacrifice. Voldemort will be unable to harm Harry while Harry considers you his guardian. He will be unable to harm anyone in your home. This is of the utmost importance for Harry’s safety, and as I believe he will play an integral role in the future of our world, his safety is paramount._

_I cannot imagine how overwhelming it must be for you to read all of this in a letter. I have struggled uselessly trying to find the words to somehow make this all bearable and clear, but words have failed me. I can only hope that the tired scribbles of a very old and sorrowful man have served their purpose and provided you with the best possible explanation, even if the best possible explanation is, forgive me, appalling._

_Even amidst this grief and horror, I must ask this of you: take Harry in. Treat him as a son. Offer him the love of a parent that has been so cruelly ripped from him at the hands of a despicable and evil person. In so doing you protect him and all of us from atrocities unknown and unnamable, and provide some meaning to the senseless death of such a wonderful person in your sister._

_I do hope that one day we might exchange a more pleasant letter._

_Yours truly,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

Petunia stared at the letter for several long moments after she had finished reading it. She couldn’t give a name to the tumult of emotions swimming through her chest, even if asked.

_Your sister Lily and her husband James were killed_ … the words glared at her off the page. Suddenly she felt tears stinging her eyes and she quickly moved to wipe them away. Lily hadn’t had the sense to keep herself out of danger even with a young child; Lily had never had much sense, always trying her best to be different and abnormal. And now she had left her son an orphan.

She tried and failed to ignore pain in her chest. Lily was dead. That was it. Her only relative remaining to her was gone. Of course she and Lily hadn’t spoken in ages… Petunia hadn’t even invited her to her wedding. But somewhere in the back of her mind she had always found some comfort in the fact that Lily was out there somewhere. And now she quite suddenly wasn’t.

But now what was she to do? This man had dropped the boy unceremoniously on her doorstep. What of Vernon and Dudley? The boy was obviously in danger; he would bring danger to her perfect little family. She didn’t know anything about this Lord Volde… whatever his name, he sounded like awful trouble and she didn’t want anything to do with him.

And what of this _protection_ that he claimed ran through her veins? She cringed at the thought that she had unwittingly become involved in such abnormality. Magic had never had anything to do with her, and she didn’t like the thought of it one bit.

And then another awful thought occurred to her. The boy would surely be one of _them_. Just like his mother, he would make odd things happen and then be whisked off to that ridiculous school at the age of eleven. The image of the first letter Dumbledore had written to her danced across her mind. She had been a foolish child, jealous of the attention that Lily’s _oddness_ brought her. Angry at the wedge that Hogwarts had forced between she and her sister, she had written, asking to go with Lily. Dumbledore had responded, explaining that she wasn’t like _them_ and wasn’t allowed to go. Of course she had long since realized that she was far better off than Lily was, living a perfectly normal and happy life, but at the time…

Was this boy going to give her Dudley the same awful insecurity that she had felt as a child, when her sister had been able to do things that she could not? She would not allow it. The boy, Harry, would not make her Dudders feel the way Lily had always made her feel.

And what would Vernon think? He’d hated the lot of them, especially Lily’s awful husband. He wouldn’t want to take the boy in.

No, it was all very sad and all that, but it wasn’t her responsibility that Lily had gone and got herself killed. It wasn’t her responsibility to seal some sort of magical contract of which she had little understanding. The boy would have to go somewhere else, anywhere else. She wouldn’t allow him to stay. It was all too much, too dangerous, too _odd_. 

Suddenly, the boy moved on the couch, evidently awakening from his slumber. Without thinking, she moved to pick him up as she would have done with Dudley. Just as she reached out her arms, she stopped.

The boy was staring at her, the almond shaped green eyes bright with curiosity. She could see with unbearable clarity a young girl with dark red hair and bright green eyes laughing as they played with dolls together, as they ripped open presents at Christmas, as they ate breakfast with their parents at the long wooden table. Those eyes that had stared at her with disappointment and reproach every summer after she had gone away to that school, eyes that she had not seen in years and it struck her now that she would never see again. Petunia felt as though she were choking, frozen, staring at the boy whose eyes were so horribly and wonderfully familiar.

“Petunia?” said a voice from the doorway. “What’s going on? Whose child is that?”

She looked up at Vernon, staring at her as though she had three heads, midway through tying his tie. She could feel the tears on her cheeks and an undeniable feeling of deep regret in her chest.

“He’s Lily’s. He’s Lily’s son.”


	2. Severus

Severus sat stiffly in his seat, his muscles rigid, his jaw clenched. He breathed through his nose slowly, waiting. The children had finally taken their seats at their House Tables, chatting loudly in high pitched, grating voices. To them, of course it probably felt like years since they had roamed the halls of Hogwarts, but to Severus the summer months had gone by achingly quickly. He already missed the quiet of the castle without insufferable teenagers for him to control.

He glared at the Gryffindor table. Lee Jordan was attracting a large crowd of admirers with the contents of a box. He was flanked on either side by the Weasley twins, who were shooting furtive glances at the staff table. How idiotic, that they thought they were being so discreet while all the while being so obnoxiously obvious.

It had to start soon. It would be any minute now.

Just then, the large doors to the left of the Entrance Hall opened to reveal Minerva McGonagall, looking austere as ever. Severus felt his heart accelerate and he wiped his palms on the inside of his robes. It was ridiculous, absurd. He didn’t care in the slightest that he was coming to Hogwarts this year, he didn’t care at all which House the damn hat put him in.

Severus wasn’t entirely sure who he was trying to convince of this

He stared straight ahead, rigidly refusing to look at the line of first year students. It didn’t matter what he looked like, did it? None of it mattered anymore.

Student after student was called upon to sit on the stool and don the hat. Severus clapped politely along with the rest of the staff, perhaps clapping slightly harder when a student was sorted into Slytherin. Still though, he refused to turn his neck a degree, and instead fixed his gaze on the back of the Hall. He resolutely controlled every muscle in his body, moving only to clap his hands.

When Minerva shouted the name “Malfoy, Draco,” Severus could not help but glance up in spite of himself. He saw a thin boy with sleek blonde hair approach the rickety stool. He smiled thinly when Draco was sorted into Slytherin as soon as the hat touched his head. This was Lucius and Narcissa’s boy, of course he would be in Slytherin.

He immediately returned to his vigil, his back tense. _He_ would be sorted soon.

“Potter, Harry!”

The Hall immediately fell silent, and then picked up again with buzzing whispers. This irked Severus more than he wanted it to. Of course the boy was famous, destined always to be the center of attention.

Severus had told himself he wasn’t going to look, wasn’t going to spare the boy a glance, but he could not help himself. He had to know. He had to know if he looked like her.

He finally saw him, walking toward the stool with a look of apprehension on his face, and immediately wanted to be sick. Of course he didn’t look like her. He looked like _him_. The ridiculously messy jet black hair, the nose, the boy even wore glasses.

This must be some sort of sick joke that the universe was playing on him. Of course, the entirety of Severus’ life had been some sort of sick and twisted joke so he wasn’t entirely surprised. But still, of all the things he had been forced to stomach and endure in his miserable life, this was perhaps the most ironically cruel.

It was as though he had been transported back in time to his own first year. He was nothing but a stuttering oddball, feeling awkward, wondering if anyone would notice the shabby state of his robes, and feeling already disappointed that his naïve hope that Hogwarts would be the place he finally fit in somewhere was dashed. Because there was _Potter_. Looking fucking identical to the bastard who had made his life hell for years and who had finally won her over when he could not.

What a cruel joke.

The Hat took a very long time to sort the boy, which Severus was perhaps more annoyed by than he should have been. He wanted him to be sorted into Gryffindor immediately, as his arrogant father before him, so that his suspicions that the boy was like him could be confirmed. But the Hat was silent for what felt like hours though could only have been a few minutes.

Finally, though, the hat shouted “Gryffindor” and Severus’ misgivings were dashed. Of course he was in Gryffindor. The Gryffindor table erupted, and the Weasley twins started chanting “We got Potter! We got Potter!” The boy looked nothing short of delighted by the attention he was receiving, as his father would have been.

Severus did not even listen to the sorting of the rest of the students, did not care where the other children ended up. They were all the same, anyway. He stared rigidly ahead, hating that his blood was pumping, hating that he felt so ridiculously _angry_. He had been a double agent, for Merlin’s sake. He had lied flawlessly to the most powerful wizard of all time. He had been able to control his grief and his anger and his pent up resentment. He had contained all of it, always. And one sight of James Potter’s clone of a son and he was reeling, unable to focus on anything.

Of course, he didn’t want to think about _why_ the boy affected him this way.

Dumbledore stood up and said something as nonsensical as he always did, and then the feast began. Severus was eating without tasting. He was faintly aware that the idiot Quirrell was talking to him about something or other, but he didn’t even bother to pretend he was listening. Because the echo of a long ago conversation was reverberating in his mind.

 _He has her eyes, precisely her eyes. You remember the shape and color of Lily Evans’ eyes, I am sure_?

Almost against his will, his eyes found the boy amidst the crowd of Gryffindors, happily eating their fill. He had to know.

As if he sensed Severus’ gaze, the boy looked up at the staff table and his eyes locked with Severus’. His stomach lurched.

What a fucking cruel joke this was. That this boy existed was incontrovertible proof that she had chosen _him_ , had married _him_ , had loved _him_. Because staring at him out of James Potter’s face, with a combination of fear and a bit of defiance, were Lily Evans’ eyes. He hated that her eyes were looking at him that way, before he realized what a ridiculous thing that was to think.

The boy flinched noticeably and turned away, and Severus’ blood was pumping and he realized that for the first time in a long time he had no idea what facial expression he was making, no idea whether he had been glaring obviously. There was a familiar pain in his chest that he hadn’t felt so acutely in over ten years.

He only knew that he hated the boy. He hated him for existing at all. He hated him for making him feel so raw and out of control. And more than anything, he hated him for reminding him so incredibly forcefully of what he had done.


	3. Sirius

Sirius trotted through the perfectly manicured lawn, hiding in the shadows cast by a large oak tree. The light of the street lamp was yellowed and bright, far too bright for his liking. It was a risk, coming here. But he had to do it, he needed to see…

Just then, he heard the pounding of footsteps and the sound of something heavy being dragged along the pavement. Sirius, his senses far stronger as a dog than as a human, could detect the faint scent of lemon in the air. He retreated behind a garage, his canine heart hammering in his chest.

He knew, logically, that a Muggle spotting a mangy old dog in the night wouldn’t expose him, but he couldn’t quite suppress the feeling of dread and panic that had overtaken him for the last decade. It was always there, like a cold blanket dousing him and muting his senses. Even now that he had escaped from those damn wretched creatures, he still felt as though his bones were made of ice. He imagined a younger version of himself laughing carelessly at the thin dog cowering in the shadows; he would have called himself a cowardly muppet. That version of himself felt like a long forgotten brother with whom he hadn’t spoken in years. But every day that he wasn’t in that hellhole of a prison was a day in which that brother felt a little more like himself and not like a ghost of a time and a place that no longer existed.

His heart slowly calmed as the scraping sound stopped and the footsteps quieted. The Muggle had apparently taken a seat on the low wall along the street. Sirius supposed he ought to get on with it, get on with what he had come here to do. He just wanted to see the house where Harry lived, to make sure that Harry was happy and safe before he continued his travels north. He needed to know that much. He needed something to go on.

He crept from behind the shadows of the garage and glanced at the back of the boy whose footsteps had so alarmed him moments ago, intending to scamper in the direction he was sure Harry’s house was when he stopped, his heart in his throat.

 _James_.

He would recognize that untidy mop of hair anywhere, the slant of the thin shoulders. James was alive, somehow and here he was sitting on a wall as though he was waiting for Sirius to go check on Harry together.

Joy, a joy he had not felt in years flooded through him. Even in his muted canine senses he was overwhelmed by a happiness that felt so foreign it was almost painful. He hadn’t been allowed to feel joy in twelve long years and he didn’t know if he remembered what it felt like but this must be it, surely.

However, soon his logic caught up with his heart and he realized that the boy was far too young to be James. James would be thirty-two now, like him. And this boy was hardly a teenager.

This must be Harry. It had to be Harry. It couldn’t be anybody else that looked so eerily like James that even now that Sirius knew it couldn’t be, he was having a hard time really believing it wasn’t.

Harry was sitting on the wall, breathing heavily as though he had just sprinted from somewhere. Sirius crept closer, as though in some sort of trance.

It was as though he were an exact replica of James. The pointed elbows, the thin shoulders. Hell, his hair even stood up in the back exactly as James’ always had. He wanted to catch a glimpse of the boy’s face; surely the resemblance didn’t carry to his face as well?

 _So Lily didn’t run away with the milk man after all_. Sirius had always joked that Harry wasn’t really James’ son, because who would procreate with a stupid git like that? Surely not Lily. But here was the proof, breathing more slowly now, sitting on the wall. He had a fleeting moment where he imagined James’ triumphant smirk and arrogant gloating that _of course_ this was his son, you useless idiot, but then the rest of reality caught up with him.

This couldn’t be James, not just because this boy was too young, but because James was dead. James was murdered, murdered because of that traitorous useless lump who’d had him thrown in prison for twelve long years. Harry was here living with Muggles instead of with James and Lily because of fucking Peter Pettigrew, and Pettigrew was still alive and at Hogwarts. He’d been living with Harry for two fucking years as the rat he was.

Ah, joy felt foreign, but pain? The pain, he was used to. He had been reliving this ugly and excruciating truth relentlessly for twelve long years. The death of his best friend in the world, the one who had been a brother to him, the betrayal of Peter Pettigrew… The pain washed over him like an old friend, only this time it was more complex than it had been in prison… more nuanced. Because it was mixed with happy memories of both James and Peter now. Memories of the four of them laughing together, pulling pranks… of him convincing James to use Pettigrew as Secret Keeper.

_Padfoot, are you sure? You really think he’s… up to it?_

_Prongs, it’s brilliant. They’d never suspect it would be him. I can go on the run, and you can keep hiding with Lily and Harry._

_I know they won’t, but you know Wormy. He’ll wet himself at the prospect._

_Yes, but then he’ll dry himself off and I’ll be a perfect decoy._

_All right. I trust you, Padfoot. Just don’t get yourself killed, all right?_

_Who’s going to kill me, Snivellus?_

He wasn’t entirely sure that this pain wasn’t actually worse.

Sirius was distracted from his pain by Harry’s movement. He was looking up and down the street now, his body language tense. He appeared to be thinking about something. He was gripping his wand in his hand.

Sirius realized suddenly that he had been so distracted by Harry’s uncanny resemblance to James that he hadn’t quite taken in the entirety of the picture. The thing Harry had been dragging was his school trunk, which Harry was now rifling through with haste. He had his wand carelessly in his hand in a street full of Muggles.

What was going on? Why was Harry out alone on the street with his school trunk in the night? Where were his aunt and uncle?

Harry stood suddenly and looked around, as though he had heard someone coming. Sirius glanced around and saw no one. Harry bent to his trunk once more, but then straightened again almost immediately and turned to face the alleyway in which Sirius crouched.

Before he could do anything, Harry illuminated his wand, casting light into the alleyway and over Sirius. Sirius knew he should move but he couldn’t, because he could finally see Harry’s face in the light.

The thin face, the long thin nose… it was as though he were staring into the face of his best friend again. A terrible aching happiness flooded through him, even though this time his mind knew what his heart did not: that this boy would not smirk and shout “Padfoot!” as he so wanted him to, because this boy did not know who he was. For a brief moment he let himself imagine that Harry was James, that James was about to shoot a hex at him and laugh, that James had been waiting all this time for Sirius so they could face the world together, as they always had.

The moment was broken when Harry, apparently alarmed, stepped back and tripped over his school trunk, falling into the street. A loud BANG echoed through the quiet Muggle street, and Sirius saw the large purple vehicle he recognized as the Knight Bus materialized from the shadows.

Sirius retreated back behind the garage, feeling a strange sort of joyous grief. He watched as Harry peered back into the alley that Sirius had vacated, conversed with the pimply conductor, and boarded the bus.

He had no idea where Harry was going, no idea why he was leaving the Muggles so early in the summer, no idea if Harry had got a good look at him. All he knew was that he felt more alive than he had in over twelve years.

He would see Harry again at Hogwarts. And maybe by that point he would be more accustomed to a world without James Potter, and the tear in his heart wouldn’t threaten to rip open at the sight of his godson.


End file.
